


Fooled Around and Fell in Love

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Discussions of Past Abusive Relationships, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Getting Together, Greg is a Good Boyfriend, Hospitalization, M/M, References to Drug Use, Valentine's Day, lots of generally dorky boys in love, mycroft needs all the hugs, references to drug overdose, science in the name of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 02:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9696317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: It's Valentine's Day! Greg is a huge romantic, Mycroft tells Greg about his last relationship, Sherlock is majorly pining, and John makes a confession.





	1. And Now I Found You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft share their first Valentine's Day as a couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title is Fooled Around and Fell in Love by Elvin Bishop.  
> Chapter title from Fallin' For You by Colbie Caillat.  
> For real, guys, there's a lot of cute stuff, but I really go into Mycroft's past relationship, which was incredibly emotionally abusive. Just a heads up.  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

“This is the urgent matter you dragged me halfway across the city for?” Anthea raised an eyebrow, looking more amused than anything else, and brought her coffee cup to her perfectly painted lips. The café was out of the way, even for Greg, but he’d been a bit paranoid about being followed or overheard.

“I didn’t say it was _urgent_ ,” Greg muttered over his own cup of coffee, glancing nervously out the window.

Technically, he hadn’t said anything, but he had sent a text message to Anthea less than an hour previous that just said:

Need to talk to you as soon as possible. Don’t tell Mycroft. – GL

It had led to a worried response and Greg suggesting this coffee shop, and there they were, an hour later, with Greg glancing out the window every few minutes, much to Anthea’s amusement.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” he asked abruptly.

Anthea shook her head. “I’m not in the habit of keeping things from Mycroft. It’s my job, after all. But for you, I made an exception.”

“Good,” Greg nodded. “Good. So you’ll help?”

Anthea rolled her eyes and smirked, but the warmth in her voice was genuine when she responded, “Of course I’ll help. I’m just not sure what, exactly, you need help with. You seem to have a fairly solid grasp on the situation.”

Greg took another gulp of coffee and groaned, “It’s already Friday and I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. Valentine’s Day is on Tuesday, Anthea, and I don’t even know if Mycroft celebrates the holiday.”

“You could ask him,” she suggested.

There was a definite urge to bang his head on the table, but Greg resisted. “I don’t want to just ask. For one thing, I know Sherlock thinks the holiday is a complete waste of time, and I don’t want any awkwardness if Mycroft has the same opinion, because I actually like it. And for another, it kind of ruins the romantic vibe, not to mention any surprises, if I bug him with questions. That’s why I’m enlisting you.”

“Wow, you’ve really put some thought into this.” Greg couldn’t tell if Anthea was being sarcastic or not, but he gave her an imploring look all the same. She sighed, “Alright, I’ll help you.”

“Thank you,” Greg sighed. He slumped back in his chair for a moment, but when Anthea leaned forward he copied the motion.

“First things first,” she said, all business, “Mycroft loves Valentine’s Day. He’d never admit it, what with all that ‘logic over emotions’ crap that he likes to spout, but he’s a romantic at heart. He’d really love it if you did something for him.”

“Nothing too big, I figured,” Greg said. “We’ve not even been together a month.”

Anthea nodded, “Good call.”

“And a special meal is probably out too,” Greg continued. “Traditional Valentine’s Day food is all incredibly rich, and while Mycroft’s making decent progress, I don’t want to chance it.”

“I’d recommend staying in anyway,” Anthea said. “Maybe you could do a dessert thing? Something with fruit and chocolate, so if he gets uneasy about it you can always argue that the healthy stuff and the chocolate cancel each other out. Plus, chocolate-covered anything is great for Valentine’s Day.”

Greg nodded in agreement, mentally taking notes. “One of the fireplaces in the house has one of those classic bear-skin rugs in front of it,” he added thoughtfully. “Dessert in front of a fire, that’s pretty traditionally romantic, right?”

“Can’t go wrong with that,” Anthea agreed cheerfully. “Plus, it gives you plenty of opportunity to stare into each other’s eyes sappily.”

“Oi, I asked you here for help, not to tease me!” Greg said.

“I think I can do both.”

Greg laughed, “Are you sure you’re not Mycroft’s long-lost daughter or something?”

“I’m sure,” Anthea said, but she did smile at the thought. “So, you’ve got a plan. It’s very simple, not too much for a first Valentine’s Day as a couple, and I guarantee Mycroft will love it. And, because I’m just that nice, I’ll even make sure he’s home when you get out of work so there’s no chance of missing it because he worked late again.”

“You’re a goddess,” Greg praised. “Remind me to send you flowers.”

Anthea tapped a button on her phone and grinned at him, “Already done. Speaking of which, Mycroft isn’t a huge fan of flowers, but he certainly wouldn’t mind a rose, if you got him one.”

“Duly noted,” Greg returned the smile. “No over-the-top bouquets to express my affection.” He felt much more at ease now than he had since planning to contact Anthea. He still wasn’t entirely sure the extent of his boyfriend’s surveillance methods, both in what he was capable of and what he actually did, but Greg could already tell that planning surprises was going to be very difficult when dating Mycroft Holmes. Bad enough he was a genius with deductive skills beyond even Sherlock’s. Put him at the center of the government, give him access to all the cameras and computers, and his power was unfathomable. Greg was looking forward to the challenge.

“Thank you so much for your help, Anthea,” he told her. “You’re a life saver, really.”

She gave half a shrug and took another leisurely sip of coffee. “It’s my job to look out for Mycroft. You make him happier than I’ve seen him in a very long time, and as far as I can tell, you’re not going to do anything to hurt him. So I’ll do whatever I can to help you make him happy. Besides,” she gave him a playful smile, “I have it on good authority that, for the right people, most P.A.s can be bought with gifts of flowers and coffee. And a word to their boss about a raise for all the extra work that they do.”

“I’ll mention it to Mycroft,” Greg laughed. “I’m certain he’s not paying you enough anyway, because I don’t know how he’d survive without you.”

Anthea’s response was light, but completely sincere, “Reasonably well, I think, now that he has you.”

***

When Greg woke up Tuesday morning after, for once, an undisturbed sleep, he was greeted by an empty bed and a heart-shaped chocolate on Mycroft’s pillow, under which an envelope with Greg’s name penned in Mycroft’s neatest, swishing handwriting rested. Greg sat up, unwrapped the chocolate, and let it melt on his tongue as he opened the envelope. Inside there was a note on stationary that Greg recognized from Mycroft’s desk. It didn’t have his name on it, unlike those monogramed towels that Greg liked to tease him about, but it was still unmistakable. The note read:

_My darling Gregory,_

___I’ve never called you that before, but I do believe I like it. My darling. It has a nice ring to it, and I don’t think you’ll mind, given that you call me your love quite frequently. I’m sorry I could not be here when you woke, but duty calls, as I’m sure you understand. I look forward to seeing you when I return home, and you will occupy my thoughts until then. Happy Valentine’s Day, my darling_ _._

___Je t’aime de tout mon cœur._

__Greg only spoke a bit of French, a side effect from his father’s French heritage, but he knew enough to have a good idea what his polyglot of a boyfriend had written. He gently traced over the letters with his finger, not wanting to smudge the ink, and then slid the note back inside its envelope. When he got dressed, he slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and he couldn’t deny the upbeat whistling as he made his way to work.

“Someone’s cheerful today,” Donovan commented as he passed by her desk. “You feeling okay?”

“It’s not a crime to have a good day,” Greg returned, stepping into his office and shrugging out of his coat.

Donovan followed him and leaned against the doorframe, “No, but it’s you. This time last year you were all mopey, and we practically had to handcuff you to keep you from calling Amelia and begging her to take you back. Valentine’s Day is generally the day you remember you’re single and gripe about how you’ll never find love. It’s a little disgusting, actually.”

“So you should be happy that I’m not doing that this year,” Greg retorted.

“You seeing someone?”

That brought Greg up short, “What?” He hadn’t actually told his team yet, not because he hadn’t wanted to but because there hadn’t been an opportunity.

“You heard me,” Donovan said. “You’ve been acting different for weeks, and now it’s Valentine’s Day and you’re not miserable. We are detectives, you know. What’s her name?”

“His name, actually,” Greg responded. He waited a second, to see if Donovan had any visible reaction, and when she didn’t make a comment or even look surprised, he continued, “You’ve met him before, just in passing, I think. You remember Mycroft Holmes?”

That did get a reaction. Sally’s eyes widened and she blinked in shock, “That posh git who hangs around sometimes when the freak’s being especially weird?”

“Oi,” Greg said, “that ‘posh git’ happens to be my boyfriend. And you shouldn’t call Sherlock a freak.”

“Right, sorry,” Sally shook her head, laughing. “Just…wow, their parents really know how to pick names, don’t they? I mean, they’re brothers, right?”

“Yeah. Mycroft’s seven years ahead of Sherlock in age and probably a couple decades in maturity.”

“And we all know you like a mature man,” Sally winked lasciviously at him. “Can’t believe I forgot about that, but then you were married to Amelia for most of the time I’ve known you.”

“Yes, thank you for the commentary on my love life,” Greg said, “but I do believe you have a job to do?” He sat down at his desk and leaned back in his chair, casting a pointed look out the door over Donovan’s shoulder.

She raised her hands in surrender, “Alright, alright.” She turned to go, and then asked teasingly, “Is he any good in bed?”

“Out, Donovan!” he said loudly, and her laughter as she fled back to her desk was audible to most of the office. Greg dropped his face into his hands, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of his coworker and closest friend on the force. When he lifted his head again, he noticed for the first time the envelope propped up against his nameplate. It looked exactly like the one he’d found that morning, and he opened it eagerly.

_My darling Gregory,_

___In spite of everything, I am not exaggerating when I say that these past few weeks have been the happiest ones of my life. Not a day passes where I do not consider myself incredibly lucky to have you by my side, and I cherish each moment I spend with you. I know I am a difficult man, but your patience and love is the most precious gift I have ever received, and for as long as you’ll have me I will spend every day working to be worthy of that gift._

___Mein Herz gehört Dir._

That one Greg had to look up, as he knew about two words of German and both had to do with alcohol, but when he did he had to put his hand to his chest, telling his heart sternly that it was not an appropriate time to send him into cardiac arrest. His throat felt a little tight, and he considered texting Mycroft a response, but eventually he decided against it. It could wait until Greg could tell him in person.

In the meantime, there was paperwork to do, and the odds of being called out to another Valentine’s Day shooting, suicide or homicide, was unfortunately high.

Fortunately, by the time lunch break rolled around for most of the department, it was still just boring paperwork and not gruesome murder scenes. Anderson met up with Sally and Greg at the canteen, and Sally wasted no time in spilling the news of Greg’s relationship to the forensic officer, who looked just as surprised as Sally had. Of course, Anderson’s first question was a little different. “Is he anywhere near as annoying as Sherlock is?”

“Do you really think I’d be dating him if he was?” Greg asked. “Look, whatever you say, Sherlock’s a good bloke, but he’s also a pain in my arse more often than not. Mycroft’s definitely smarter than his brother, but he doesn’t go about it in a way that makes me want to tear my hair out.”

“Speak of the devil,” Sally muttered under her breath.

Anderson and Greg both turned to look, Greg half-expecting to see Mycroft. Instead, Sherlock Holmes was the one striding over to their table, looking annoyed. When he stopped in front of them, he ignored both Donovan and Anderson and addressed Greg directly. “Do tell my brother that I’m not his messenger pigeon. It’s not my job to deliver his stupid notes.” He produced a slightly wrinkled envelope from his coat pocket and thrust it in Greg’s direction, barely waiting until the policeman got ahold of it before stalking off, muttering something about ‘stupid commercial holidays that make absolutely no sense.’

The moment he was gone, Anderson and Donovan turned back to Greg, eyeing the envelope with a great deal of interest. “Think it’s poetry?” Sally speculated.

“Doubt it,” Anderson replied. “Unless it’s an ode to an anatomically correct heart.”

Greg groaned, “First of all, Mycroft isn’t interested in all the science stuff that Sherlock is. He’s not actually that much like Sherlock. Second of all, it’s none of your business what it is, because it’s not meant for you. See? It’s got _my_ name on it, so back off, you vultures.”

Anderson and Donovan shared a look. Donovan raised her eyebrows, “Dirty poetry?”

“I need new friends,” Greg grumbled. At least they were making jokes about it. All things considered, there were worse reactions his friends could have had.

Back in his office after lunch, Greg figured he could put off working just a little longer while he read his note.

_My darling Gregory,_

___I don’t think I tell you how beautiful you are often enough. You are the most stunning man I have ever met. Your smile could make the sun shine and your laugh makes my heart sing. For so long, looking at you was like seeing a star in the night sky; I could admire its beauty from afar, but never touch it. Now that I have you, I never wish for you to leave my arms again. I would apologize for the sappiness, but we both know you are as much of a romantic as I am._

___Tu sei una stella, la mia stella._

__“Should have made a bet with Anthea,” Greg whispered to no one, chuckling. “At least you can admit you’re a romantic to me.” His grasp of Italian was even worse than his grasp of German, but it was well worth looking up, because the warmth that was spreading through him only increased. Mycroft was trying to tell him something in the only way he knew how: by saying it so Greg needed Google just to understand him.

And Anthea really was a goddess in disguise. The moment Greg stepped out of work, suggestive comments from Donovan ringing in his ears, there was a text on his phone.

Mycroft delivered home as promised. Enjoy your evening. ;) – A

Thank you. Did you get the flowers? – GL

I did. They’re lovely. How did you know irises were my favorite? – A

Your boss is my boyfriend. How do you think? – GL

Touché. Now stop texting me and get home. – A

Yes, ma’am. – GL

He’d considered signing off the last text with a winky face of his own, but decided that he was a grown man, not a teenager, and satisfied himself with knowing it was implied.

When he arrived at Mycroft’s house after one brief stop, he was drawn up short by the envelope taped to the door. Grinning, he pulled it down, noting it was a bit heavier than the other ones, and when he opened it, he realized there were two objects inside. One was a note and the other, he discovered when he dumped it into his hand, was a key. Surprised, he turned to the note.

_My darling Gregory,_

___I know you’ve been using a borrowed one, but I thought it was high time you had your own key to our home. Is it too early to think of it as our home and not just mine? I hope not; it doesn’t feel much like a home when you are not in it, and I already know I want you to stay here with me for a very long time. Think of the key as not just the literal key to a place you are always welcome, but as the metaphorical key to something I believe you would find much more precious._

___у вас есть ключ к моему сердцу._

__That one was the hardest to translate, given the Russian letters, but Greg’s phone was good for something, and he grinned at the cheesy joke. He tucked the note into his pocket with the others and used his new key to unlock the front door. The house was mostly dark inside, but the hallway light was on, and Greg could see flickering light at the end of the hall. As he entered the room, which of course was the one he’d mentioned to Anthea the week before, he discovered that the flickering was coming from the already-lit fire, and he wondered if Anthea had told Mycroft or if he had simply come up with it on his own. It was a sitting room, designed mostly for relaxing in front of the fireplace, and as such there were a pair of chairs upholstered in red leather in the center of the room with a small table between them (and, of course, the bear-skin rug Greg had told Anthea about). As he gently set down one of the two items he was carrying on the rug, he noticed that there was a card sitting on the table, much smaller than the others and not in an envelope, and it was filled almost entirely with writing. He picked it up and replaced it with the single, red rose he’d bought on the way home.

_Je t’adore. Ich liebe dich._ _Ti amo. Я_ _тебя_ _люблю_ _. Обичам_ _те_ _. Ik hou van jou._ _Jeg Elsker Dig. Σ_ _’αγαπω_ _. Szeretlek. Te amo. Jag älskar dig. Volim te. Ta gra agam ort._

__Greg didn’t speak any of those languages, save for his limited French, but he didn’t need to. He understood perfectly. He flipped the card over, and the writing on the back cleared up any doubts he might have had. Printed neatly in the middle of the card were three very simple words that Greg didn’t need a translator to understand.

_I love you._

__“I’m not the best with words,” Mycroft’s voice came from the doorway, and Greg looked up to see him standing there, waistcoat removed and the top button of his shirt undone, the firelight reflecting beautifully off his hair and making it appear even redder. He blushed when Greg looked at him, “Conversation…you can’t rehearse it. You can’t memorize what you want to say and just say it. The human factor throws a wrench in things. But writing, now that’s something I’m rather good at. You can try it over and over until you get it just right.” He looked cautious. “I do hope I got it right.”

It took Greg only a few strides to cross the room and pull Mycroft into a long kiss. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Mycroft said breathlessly when they finally separated.

“I’m no poet,” Greg said, “but everything in those notes? I feel exactly the same way. And for the record, I love you too. So very much.”

Mycroft smiled, and this time he was the one to initiate the kiss, which was soft and sweet and damn it, Greg was not swooning! Well, maybe just a little…

“Come here, love,” Greg pulled Mycroft over to the rug and sat down with him. The fire was warm, but not intolerably so, and it made Mycroft flush a pretty shade of pink. His boyfriend’s eyes scanned across the room, falling on the rose briefly, a smile playing across his lips, and then landed on the box Greg had deposited on the rug.

“What’s this?” he asked softly, as if he hadn’t guessed the contents from the size and shape of the box (or, you know, the label).

“Have you eaten?” Greg asked by way of an answer.

“Anthea fed me a late lunch, so I’d consider myself properly taken care of.”

Not perfect, but good enough. “Good,” Greg said. He pulled on the strings keeping the outer box from collapsing, which it promptly did, revealing an assortment of different chocolate-covered fruits arranged neatly in a little plastic container.

Mycroft looked pleasantly surprised, although Greg was fairly certain the surprise was at least partially faked, and said, “Very romantic. I approve. Did Anthea help with the idea?”

Greg pretended to be offended when he responded, “What, you don’t think I can be romantic without help?”

Mycroft leaned over and stole a kiss, effectively silencing him. Not pulling away more than an inch, he murmured, “I wouldn’t dare call your romance skills into question, Gregory.” He sat up fully, leaving Greg a bit dazed and still leaning towards him, and smirked, “but assuming you could see my personal assistant without me learning about it wasn’t your brightest moment, my darling.”

The endearment had been sweet in the notes, but it was even better to hear it from Mycroft’s lips. It distracted him from the conversation for a minute, before he shook his head, “Anthea told you? She promised she wouldn’t.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Mycroft said, still smiling. “You forget, you’re dating one of the most powerful men in the British government. I have eyes everywhere.”

“One of?” Greg feigned disappointment. “And here I thought I was dating the most powerful man in the country, possibly the world.”

“You do enjoy flattering me,” Mycroft murmured.

“What can I say?” Greg grinned and picked up one of the chocolate-covered strawberries, offering it out to Mycroft, “Being the boyfriend of an incredibly gorgeous genius brings out the romantic in me.”

“I think we’ve already established that you’re a romantic, with or without me.” But Mycroft was blushing as he spoke, and he looked directly into Greg’s eyes as he wrapped his lips around the strawberry, sending a shiver down the policeman’s spine. Mycroft swallowed and licked his lips, not dropping the eye contact, and Greg forced himself to look away before it got to be a bit too much.

“This isn’t going to be a replay of last week, is it?” he asked carefully, setting the strawberry stem down in the lid of the box.

Mycroft shifted next to him, and when Greg chanced a look at him, his boyfriend was staring at the rug, his fingers twisting through the soft brown fur nervously. Greg hesitated, and then reached over and covered Mycroft’s hand with his own. “Love? You okay?”

“That is a very…relative question,” Mycroft answered without really answering. He sighed, “I am trying very hard to be a good boyfriend, Gregory.”

“You are,” Greg assured him. “Christ, Mycroft, look at what you did for me today. You’re a great boyfriend.”

“It’s lovely of you to say, but I’m really not,” Mycroft responded. He was resolutely not looking at Greg or at where their hands were touching, choosing instead to make intense eye contact with the fireplace, the red-yellow flickers of light dancing across his blue-grey eyes. “I haven’t been with anyone in a very long time, romantically or otherwise.”

“I know,” Greg said softly. He stroked his thumb lightly over Mycroft’s wrist.

“I suppose we were going to have to talk about it at some point,” Mycroft sighed. “I just wish it hadn’t been Valentine’s Day. It’s not a particularly pleasant conversation.”

Greg remained silent, worried that if he said anything, it would just upset Mycroft. Instead, he waited for his boyfriend to continue. And, after an eternity of silence, Mycroft finally said, “I was remarkably unattractive as a child. Overweight, pale as a corpse, and with all those awful freckles. Sherlock delighted in making fun of my appearance, a habit he never fully grew out of, and as I got a bit older and the other teenagers began to pair off, it became quite clear to me that a relationship was something I could never have. It was difficult enough being gay, but I was intellectually lightyears ahead of my classmates and…fitting in…was impossible. No one wanted to be _friends_ with an unattractive, unsociable genius, much less _date_ one. I…I pretended it didn’t bother me. I told myself that they were all stupid, that their sentiment was a weakness, and that I would have been a fool to succumb to such base human desires.” Mycroft swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to Greg’s hand on top of his own, and then looked away again. “It worked, more or less, and I survived high school fairly intact. But then I went off to university.”

The pause there was much longer, and Greg wanted to move closer to Mycroft, to hug him, but he wasn’t sure if it would be a welcome gesture, so he stayed where he was. Mycroft’s whole body was tense; Greg could feel it under his fingers where he was touching Mycroft’s hand. Barely audible over the crackling fire, as if speaking to a frightened animal, Greg whispered, “What happened?”

Mycroft tensed even further, if that was possible, and then relaxed a modicum. “University was different. I lost a little weight, I was in classes with people who could almost keep up with me, and people actually seemed to…like me.”

“Well, you are very likable,” Greg couldn’t help but say.

“Mmmm,” Mycroft shook his head, “I’m afraid most people would disagree with you on that point. Nevertheless, for the first time I could remember, I had friends. Not many, but it was more than I’d ever had before. And one of them…David…he…” Mycroft seemed to struggle with the words. Greg let him, waiting for Mycroft to find what he wanted to say. “Over the years,” he finally settled on, “there have only been a handful of men I’ve been attracted to. Most of the time the feeling was fleeting but David…I wanted David. Not just sexually either, but completely. I wanted to hold his hand, to kiss him, to be his. At the time, I wanted to share my whole life with him, and I couldn’t imagine a future without him in it.”

Greg actually felt a stab of jealousy over this man he’d never met, but the distress in Mycroft’s face tamped it down a bit. He stayed silent and Mycroft continued, “When David expressed an interest in me, I…at first I thought he was playing a joke on me. I felt betrayed that one of my only friends could be so cruel. But…but then he insisted that it wasn’t a prank, that he truly cared for me, and I…I allowed myself to think for the first time that maybe, just maybe, I could have someone who loved me.”

Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand, and for the first time since he’d begun speaking, his boyfriend turned to look at him. In the firelight, Mycroft no longer looked pleasantly flushed, but feverish. His eyes looked deeper and darker than Greg had ever seen them, and it scared him. Unable to keep silent, he asked softly, “So what happened?”

Mycroft’s gaze dropped again, and he addressed Greg’s hand, “At first, everything seemed perfect. David was…sweet. Caring. The perfect boyfriend.”

“And then?” Greg had an idea. He’d heard stories like this before.

“We’d been going out for about six months when I first noticed that something wasn’t…quite right. I wasn’t used to having friends, so I didn’t realize we weren’t spending any time with them anymore until David pulled me away from a chat with a girl from my economics class. We’d only been discussing the homework, but David was…displeased. He said he didn’t want me talking to other people anymore. It…concerned me, but he kissed me and told me that no one else was smart enough to appreciate me, and I…well, I bought it.” Under Greg’s hand, his fingers curled into a fist. “It was the little things. Complaining that he felt inferior because I was doing better than him in a class. Telling me to put off calling home. Making little comments about my appearance, my weight.” Mycroft shook his head, “And I listened to him. I let my grades slip, I stopped talking to my family, and I…I stopped eating. I wanted…I wanted to be good enough for him.”

“Christ,” Greg covered his mouth with his free hand. He hadn’t meant it to slip out, but Mycroft seemed not to hear him.

“Every time that I had doubts, every time that I thought maybe…maybe this wasn’t right,” Mycroft’s voice broke, and the first tear slipped down his cheek as he adopted a slightly rougher tone, “he’d say ‘do it for me, My. Do it for me, baby. Please do it, I lo-love you so mu…” He trailed off, choking, and Greg couldn’t keep himself still. He slid closer and let Mycroft rest his head on Greg’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around him protectively.

“The worst part,” Mycroft said when there was enough of a break in his sobs to speak, “is that I listened to him. Every time, I listened to him, and I believed him. Of course no one else would ever love me. Of course I needed to do better, _be_ better for him.” He shuddered, “The first time I wound up in the hospital, I was so scared.”

“The hospital?”

“He didn’t hit me,” Mycroft cut off Greg’s obvious train of thought. “He never…even with everything else, never once did he lay a finger on me. Not like that.” He sighed, looking ashamed, “No, I…I collapsed in the middle of class. I hadn’t been feeling well, I was very lightheaded, but I hadn’t wanted to say anything. I remember my vision fading out around the edges and then everything just going black. I woke up in the hospital, alone and scared. The nurses told me I was incredibly malnourished, and that the strain on my body had led to my collapse. I was…surprised. I had lost weight, but I hadn’t thought it was that much.” He actually managed a watery laugh, but it was hollow and Greg fought the urge to wince. “I prided myself on my intelligence, and I hadn’t been smart enough to realize that not eating would result in malnutrition.” He paused, collected his thoughts again, and then continued, “They wanted to notify my family, but I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t stay there, either. The moment David appeared, I went home with him. I…I actually apologized for worrying him, for not telling him where I was.”

“You were in the hospital!” That time, Greg did wince, because of course Mycroft knew that.

“Even so,” Mycroft sighed. “It should have been my wakeup call, but it wasn’t. I just told myself I had to be smarter about it. Maximize nutrients while minimizing calories. I actually wrote several formulas to calculate it.” He pinched his lips, “It didn’t help. I ended up in the hospital two more times before David and I broke up.”

“So you stayed with him.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I stayed with David, and his behavior did not change. I thought…by that point, I thought it was normal, that our relationship was how love was supposed to work. It wasn’t until Christmas, after we’d been together for nearly three years, that my eyes were finally opened.”

“What happened at Christmas?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly. His tears were slowing, and he wiped them away with his free hand. He took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes, still leaning heavily on Greg as if he couldn’t support his own weight anymore.

“Sherlock?” Greg prompted.

“I got a phone call,” Mycroft murmured. “I hadn’t heard from my parents in over two years. After a while, they’d stopped trying to call me. But, it was Christmas, so when David left the room, I called them back and they told me…” He took another deep breath. “Sherlock was in the hospital. While I had been busy not talking to my family, he’d started doing drugs. My parents had known and tried to stop him, but they hadn’t known the extent of it until he overdosed the first time. The doctors hadn’t been sure if he would make it. He was seventeen years old.”

“I knew Sherlock had a drug problem,” Greg said quietly. “I didn’t realize he’d started as a _kid_.”

Mycroft’s eyes were still closed. “I was frantic. I was getting my jacket, ready to leave, when David found me. He wanted to know where I was going, and I told him my younger brother was in the hospital, that I needed to go home. He got angry. He said that it was Christmas, that I was supposed to be with him. I told him that I wanted to stay, but that Sherlock needed me. So David gave me a choice. I could forget about Sherlock and stay with him, or I could walk out and never see him again.”

“That sounds like an obvious choice, love,” Greg said.

Mycroft opened his eyes, the tiniest of smiles at the corner of his lips. “It does, doesn’t it? But he’d threatened me with leaving before, and it had worked. I needed him, I thought, and I wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize our relationship. But this was different. This was _Sherlock_. Walking out that door…it was one of the hardest things I ever did, but my baby brother needed me.” He sighed, “I wish I could say that was the end of it all. Sherlock pulled through, obviously, but he didn’t stop using. I started to realize just how abusive David had been, and I didn’t go back to him, but I also didn’t start eating again either.”

“Did you ever see him again? David, I mean?”

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted. “After I knew Sherlock was going to be, to some degree, okay, I went back to university. My grades had been abysmal before, but I was determined to do well this time. David found me when I got back. He pleaded with me, said he missed me terribly. I…almost believed him. But then I remembered Sherlock lying in a hospital bed, looking like death, and I told him no. David…didn’t like that. He started following me, sending me threats and the like. I became increasingly paranoid, until finally I changed schools. After that, I never saw him again.”

“So, nothing happened to him?” Greg asked, disappointed but not surprised.

“Well, I hear he’s serving a very long sentence for tax evasion,” Mycroft looked a little pleased, “but I wouldn’t say I had anything to do with that.” The joke fell a bit flat, but it did ease the tension in the air somewhat.

“He’s why you hate nicknames, isn’t he?” Greg asked.

“That’s a good deal of it, yes,” Mycroft said. “It’s…an upsetting reminder of part of my life I’d rather forget. Generally speaking, it doesn’t come up much, because few people have ever tried to call me ‘My,’ which was his preferred nickname for me, but my parents still insist on ‘Mikey’ and ‘Mike,’ both of which are appalling to me even without David’s involvement. Children can be very cruel.”

“So why do you use everyone else’s full name? I mean, it makes sense for you, but why do it for other people?”

Mycroft shrugged, “It’s more formal.”

“Right,” Greg smiled, “and you like everything to be formal.”

“Quite right.”

They both laughed quietly, and Greg hugged Mycroft a little tighter, kissing his temple lightly. “I think,” Mycroft said eventually, “given time, I could come to tolerate people giving me nicknames. If they were the right people. People I trusted.”

Greg swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” He looked at Greg, “Do you know why it took me so long to say I love you?”

“I think I might have an idea.”

“I was scared,” Mycroft said. “I was terrified. After David, I buried myself, first in school, then in work. I was in and out of the hospital and treatment facilities for my…eating disorder…for years before I got it at least somewhat under control. I didn’t trust anyone, didn’t let them get close to me. I put up a façade, went back to my high school philosophy that caring wasn’t an advantage, and promised myself I would never let anyone in the way I let David in.” He turned his head and kissed Greg’s shoulder, and then murmured into his shirt, “and then you came along. You, the first man I wanted since my twenties. You, who obviously cared deeply for Sherlock and wanted to help him, who put up with my eccentricities to do so. But you were married, so I told myself it was a good thing, because if you weren’t available, I couldn’t be tempted.” He sighed, “And then you got divorced.”

“And you were tempted?”

Mycroft laughed into Greg’s shoulder, “I was so very tempted. But I was scared, and I used that to stop myself. I knew…I knew you were a good man. You were nothing like David. But I was still so broken, so damaged, and you deserved so much better. So when you said you loved me…”

“You were scared to say it back.” Greg kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “You were worried that if you let me in, I’d see that you were broken, and I’d leave. Is that right?”

“It is.”

“What changed?”

“We have been together nearly a month,” Mycroft said quietly. “In that time, I’ve had violent nightmares. I’ve been paralyzed by anxiety. I fought against you when you tried to help with my eating disorder, and I fought against you trying to get me into therapy. You have seen all the worst parts of me, and yet, here you are. Still by my side. Still saying you love me. So while I’m not entirely convinced you’ll never leave, I do trust you, Gregory. And because of that, I can finally tell you that I love you.”

“I love you too,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft sat up, blushing and looking hesitant. “So. Now that I’ve said all that, have I completely ruined Valentine’s Day?”

Greg laughed. “Of course not, love. I’m very happy that you felt comfortable enough to share that with me, but you have most definitely not ruined Valentine’s Day. We still have chocolate-covered fruit to eat and lots of cuddling to do, if you’re up for it.”

“I do believe I am,” Mycroft smiled. He plastered himself to Greg’s side and let the policeman feed him another strawberry.

“I just have one request,” Greg said, popping a raspberry in his mouth.

“Oh?”

“No more trying to seduce me until you feel comfortable, okay? That’s not a step we have to take any time soon, and I want to wait until you’re ready. No pushing yourself for my sake. Can you promise me that?”

Mycroft nodded, “I promise.” He nuzzled into his boyfriend, getting comfortable, and Greg leaned into him. Slowly the fruit disappeared, and the fire started to dim.

After a long while, Greg said, “Christ, did Sherlock really overdose on _Christmas_? No wonder you’re not a fan.”

“It’s not the most pleasant time of year, memory-wise,” Mycroft admitted. He smiled at Greg, who could swear he saw stars in his boyfriend’s eyes, “I much prefer Valentine’s Day.”

“Sap.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not 100% on the translations, and if I got anything wrong, let me know, but here is what Mycroft wrote in his notes:  
> French - I love you with all my heart.  
> German - My heart belongs to you.  
> Italian - You are a star, my star.  
> Russian - You have the key to my heart.  
> And then "I love you" in those languages plus Bulgarian, Dutch, Danish, Greek, Hungarian, Latin, Swedish, Serbian, and Gaelic, all of which I assume Mycroft speaks fluently.


	2. The World Will Follow After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Rosie solve a Valentine's Day case, and then he and John have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Accidentally in Love by Counting Crows.  
> Just for Valentine's Day, have a bonus Johnlock chapter. Mainly because these idiots begged me for it.

John barely looked up at the sound of the door slamming, announcing the detective’s return to their flat. Rosie, however, did not ignore Sherlock’s entrance, and squealed happily and reached out for him the moment he was in her sight. Sherlock reached down and scooped her out of the rocker at the foot of John’s chair.

“What was that about?” John asked casually, not looking up from his paper.

“Just some nonsense for Mycroft,” Sherlock said, bouncing Rosie in his arms, much to the baby’s delight. “Normally, I wouldn’t participate such ridiculous holiday notions, but it’s always good to have my brother in my debt.”

“In other words,” John said, putting his paper to the side and looking up at Sherlock, “you approve of Greg and Mycroft’s relationship more than you hate Valentine’s Day.”

“The amount of pining they did was ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered. “They should have celebrated their fifth anniversary _at least_ by now. It’s clear they’re perfect for each other.”

“Wow,” John murmured, grinning.

Sherlock frowned at him, “What?”

John shook his head, still smiling, “Just. You. Being all…sentimental.”

“You’ve known me a long time, John. It should be fairly obvious to you by now that I do feel things.” Rosie interjected by grabbing at Sherlock’s nose, to which he gasped in mock surprise and said, “I need that, madam! You can’t just go snatching it off my face!” Rosie gurgled happily and did it again.

“Right,” John said. “I can definitely see it.” He stood up and took his daughter back out of Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock caught his breath when John brushed up against him, but the doctor made no indication he’d noticed. He moved into the kitchen. “Client stopped by, while you were out. Left his number, but I told him you probably weren’t interested.”

“Oh? Why?”

John raised his voice to be heard over the light clinking of dishes, “Well, he thinks his wife’s having an affair. Poor sod, he’s probably right. He showed me a picture of her, and she’s way out of his league. Figured it would be a bit boring for you.”

“You know me so well, John.”

“I ought to,” the doctor responded. He gestured Sherlock into the kitchen with a jerk of his head, given that both of his hands were full. “Help me with lunch, yeah?”

Sherlock obeyed, fetching Rosie’s food from the fridge as John settled her into her high chair. A pointed look from John had him gathering sandwich ingredients as well, because as John had pointed out when he’d moved back in, the best way to teach Rosie about proper mealtimes was to lead by example. Sherlock hadn’t eaten on such a regular schedule in years.

Sleep patterns, on the other hand, remained just as erratic. Eventually Rosie would sleep soundly through the night, but she hadn't gotten there quite yet.

Sherlock and John traded off on feeding Rosie so they could also eat their own lunch, although most of hers ended up smeared across her face and down her front. There was even a smudged handprint on Sherlock's cheek where she had reached for him as he'd leaned across the table to take the spoon from John. “Careful,” John had laughed, “or I'm going to start thinking she likes you better than me.”

Sherlock smiled uncomfortably, not meeting John’s eyes. He was very fond of Rosie, and it was clear she liked him, but he hoped she didn't get too attached. There had been enough peril in his and John’s rocky relationship. No need to add jealousy into the mix.

As John cleaned up the lunch dishes, because there were some household chores he still didn't trust Sherlock with, he said casually, “I was going to go out this afternoon, run a few errands.”

“Yes, good,” done with lunch, Sherlock's mind had skipped past mundane things like shopping, and he was considering the case John had mentioned. It might have been just an ordinary affair, but one never knew, and it could tide him over until Lestrade dumped another murder into his lap.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up. John didn't look upset that he’d zoned out again, so Sherlock assumed he’d snapped back fairly quickly. John always looked a bit cross if he had to say Sherlock’s name too many times to get the genius’s attention.

“I asked if you'd watch Rosie while I'm out. I’d rather not be juggling a baby and groceries.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. At some point during Sherlock’s thinking, John had cleaned up Rosie and changed her shirt. Self-consciously, Sherlock wiped the smear of baby food off his cheek just in time for John to hand her over to him.

“Why don’t you take her for a walk,” he suggested. “Get some fresh air.”

“I will,” Sherlock answered. He could think better out in the cool air anyway, and maybe he could even visit that client John had mentioned.

“You know where her stroller is?” John asked, offering Sherlock his blue scarf and Rosie’s jacket.

“Won’t need it,” Sherlock had no intention of pushing Rosie around in a stroller. He’d discovered that holding her, somehow, helped his thought process. John helped Rosie into her coat as Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck. Then he shrugged into his Belstaff carefully, shifting Rosie in his arms so as not to drop her, and John saw him to the door.

“I’ll see you sometime tonight?”

“We’ll be back,” was Sherlock’s only response. He was already halfway down the street.

Behind him, John closed the door to 221 Baker Street and sighed. He pulled out his phone and thumbed through his contacts. He had a lot to do, and possibly not much time to do it.

For his part, Sherlock was also on his phone; he’d fished out the scrap of paper with the client’s number that he’d stuffed in his coat pocket and was busy making a call. The client, a Scott Eccleston, lived just beyond walking distance but within easy range of a cab, and he gushed over the phone about how pleased he was that Sherlock was willing to come over. A short cab ride later, Sherlock was being ushered into a shoddy flat by a man shorter even than John, with a beaklike nose and a truly unfortunate haircut.

“I didn’t know you’d be bringing anyone along,” Eccleston looked wary, if a bit envious, of Rosie, who was too busy sucking on her fist to notice much of anything.

“She’s fine, she’s helping me,” Sherlock said. “You told John that you believe your wife is having an affair?”

Eccleston bobbed his head, looking a bit like a chicken doing a mating dance, “Yes, Mr. Holmes. She’s been very secretive, and I’m worried she’s cheating on me.”

Sherlock examined the pictures on the mantelpiece. John hadn’t been lying. Eccleston’s wife was very much out of his league, but there was something the pictures captured that John’s brief examination of the situation hadn’t; in every photograph, including ones that looked rather recent, Mrs. Eccleston was looking at her husband with clear love in her eyes. It was the way John had looked at Mary, Sherlock noted with a dull pain. Subconsciously, he clutched Rosie a little tighter. She gurgled sleepily at him.

“Can I see your bedroom?” Sherlock asked, not waiting for an answer before barging in. Eccleston fluttered behind him, hovering anxiously in the doorway as Sherlock poked around. Finding nothing of particular interest, he swept out again, and then paused next to the bathroom. “When exactly did your wife begin behaving oddly?” he called out to Eccleston, although there was no need. The man was right behind him.

“A few weeks ago, I think.”

“Right. And how often do you have sex?”

Eccleston choked on his tongue. “Beg your pardon?”

“Generally speaking, if one half of a marriage begins an affair, there is a dramatic decrease in sex either before or after the inciting incident.” It occurred to him to glance down at Rosie, and he wondered if John would be cross about bringing her on an investigation, but he figured she was too young to be picking up much of the conversation, and it wasn’t like there was a dead body.

Eccleston looked a bit offended, but he just said, “We’re fine. Everything’s been fine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was very typical-and very boring-of people to worry about their partners, and then turn around and get defensive when Sherlock started asking detailed questions about their relationships. He set Rosie down on the closed toilet seat and crouched, asking as he did, “And how long have you been trying for children?”

Eccleston blinked. “We’re…not. Wisteria…she can’t have kids.”

“What makes you say that?” There was no birth control anywhere that Sherlock had seen, which usually indicated one of two things.

“The doctors…a while ago she had a miscarriage, a really bad one. The doctors said it would be near impossible for her to conceive after that.”

Sherlock fished something out of the bottom of the trashcan and set it on the counter. “Well then,” he said, “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

As he looked at the little stick on the counter, with its two blue lines, Eccleston’s expression shot past confusion, realization, and then landed on excitement. “I’m going to be a father,” he said, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

Sherlock turned on the tap and washed his hands, then picked Rosie up, who seemed unaffected by the whole procedure. “Yes, you are,” Sherlock told him. “I think you should call your wife.”

“I will!” Eccleston lunged in for a hug, but Sherlock brought Rosie between them, which effectively stopped him. Instead, he reached out and clasped Sherlock’s hand, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock was already making for the door.

As he headed back vaguely in the direction of Baker Street, he said to Rosie, “Boring, but I hope you learned something.”

She stretched and smiled at him, a smile that Sherlock returned. “And I suppose,” he added grudgingly, “that it’s not a bad case for Valentine’s Day.” He shook his head, “You’re too young to know how silly a holiday it is. Just an excuse for companies to sell cards and chocolate and flowers. If you really love someone, you don’t need some trivial day to remind them of that.”

Rosie seemed to be listening intently, and her blue eyes stared up at Sherlock’s face, enraptured. She looked so much like John sometimes that it hurt, especially when she looked at him like that. Like John used to. Suddenly, he didn’t want to go home just yet. “Do you want to go to the park, Rosie?” he asked her. “Let’s go to the park.”

The park in question was halfway between Eccleston’s house and Baker Street. There was a little pond in it, and Sherlock strolled along the water’s edge. Children were chasing each other through the thin, dead grass, a few old men were playing chess in the distance, and couples littered the walkways and benches. “Can I tell you a secret if you promise not to tell anyone?” Sherlock asked Rosie.

She nodded solemnly, although it could have just been a tiny squirm. Sherlock sighed, “Your father…he…I…”

“Oh, look at this cutie! Is she yours?” A pair of women approached, interrupting Sherlock’s struggling speech. They were wrapped around each other, clearly a couple, clearly married. Matching rings. Obvious.

“Um, no,” Sherlock said softly. Saying the words aloud hurt more than he had expected. “Well, sort of. I’m her godfather.”

“Well, she’s just precious,” the smaller woman cooed.

The other looked apologetic, “You’ll have to forgive her. She loves babies.”

“It’s quite alright,” Sherlock said. He smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes, “She’s quite the special girl.”

As the couple walked away, Sherlock murmured, “You are a _very_ special girl, Rosie Watson. Just like your mother.”

Rosie giggled and bopped Sherlock on the nose. He chuckled, “I suppose you’re right. Now. Let’s get you home. I’m sure your father is missing you.”

“Da!” Rosie squealed.

Sherlock looked down at her, shocked. He recovered quickly, stammering, “Y-yes. We’re going to go see your dad.”

“Da!” Rosie said again, and again she bopped Sherlock on the nose.

“No, Rosie,” Sherlock understood, more or less, what the baby was implying. “No, I’m not your…and anyway, you can’t be speaking to me. John will kill me if I heard your first words and he didn’t.”

Rosie burbled, but at least she stopped speaking. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, and strode off in the direction of Baker Street.

It was dark by the time the pair made it home. Rosie had started to shiver, so Sherlock had tucked her under his coat the best he could, and he brought her straight up to her crib when he got inside. She yawned as he put her down, stretching and settling before she closed those brilliant blue eyes. “Busy day, Watson,” Sherlock murmured. “Get some sleep now.” She heeded his advice. Sherlock turned on the baby monitor, knowing the matching one downstairs would let him know if she was disturbed, and headed down to see if John was in.

When he entered the kitchen, he paused. There was a small collection of items on the kitchen table, which wouldn’t have been so out of place a year ago, but John insisted on keeping the table clean now that there was a baby in the house. The first and most obvious item was a thin vase, lined with blue violets and pink camellias. In the very center, a white and red rose were twined together. Without meaning to, Sherlock reached out and brushed the petals with his fingertips. His touch was light, as if afraid they would crumble under his hands. He stared at the flowers for a very long time, his brain skimming through the meanings, trying to make sense of it, before he turned to the other items on the table.

There were three things; a set of three flashcards with elemental structures on them, an unlabeled microscope slide, and a card in a plain, white envelope. Unlike the one he’d delivered for his brother earlier, this envelope had no name on the front.

Sherlock focused on them one at a time. Flashcards first. Top card: five shells, all full expect the outermost one, for a total of fifty-three electrons. Second card: seven shells, missing two from the outermost, one hundred and sixteen elections. Third card: also seven shells, only two in the outermost shell, ninety-two electrons. In order, iodine, livermorium, uranium…oh.

 _Oh_.

Sherlock practically sprinted for his microscope. He kept it in his room now, although it didn’t get very much use. Nearly all his experiments were done at Bart’s now. Back downstairs, he placed the slide carefully under the microscope and peered at it. It was clearly used for training; the slide had been doctored a bit to make it easier to see, presumably for basic level students in some biology lab somewhere. Still, the crystalesque pattern was distinctive. Serotonin. The theme was becoming quite clear.

Sliding the microscope to one side, Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, staring at the envelope. His heart was racing the way it did during a particularly long chase or when he was riding the adrenalin high of solving a tricky case. He pushed his curls back, vaguely aware that there was a touch of dampness along his hairline; he was nervous, his mind catalogued, but it did not press the issue to the forefront. Finally, with trembling fingers, he reached out and picked up the envelope. It was simply folded shut, not sealed, and the card inside was folded horizontally, with a very basic print of a cartoon heart on the front. He opened it, and inside was a single word in a script he easily recognized.

_Freezer_

Freezer? Sherlock frowned, turning to look at the appliance in question. He walked over to it, laying his hand on the cool handle and hesitating a moment longer before yanking it open. Front and center on the shelf was a Tupperware container with a yellow sticky note attached to the lid.

_Property of Sherlock Holmes_

Sherlock pulled the container out and opened it, blinking in surprise when he was met with a real, fairly fresh, human heart. He sealing it quickly, putting it back in the freezer and staring at it for a long while.

“What’d you think?”

The voice made him spin around, slamming the freezer door shut with more force than he intended. John was leaning against the doorframe, a perfectly neutral expression on his face. He was waiting for an answer.

“You…gave me a heart,” Sherlock said slowly.

“Yes.”

“You gave me _your_ heart. Symbolically, at least.”

“Yes,” John said again. He smiled, just a little quirk of the lips.

Sherlock looked back at the table. “What is all this?” he asked softly. Looking directly at John was too much, so he addressed a spot just over John’s shoulder.

“Well,” John said, moving into the room, “you say you don’t really understand romance.” Sherlock fought the urge to back up as John advanced, but the doctor stopped a few steps away from him and continued speaking, “But if there’s one thing that I know you can understand, it’s science.”

“Don’t do this to me, John,” Sherlock shut his eyes, his stomach threatening to deposit its contents on the clean kitchen floor.

“Do what?” John asked.

“Don’t…don’t…”

“Don’t tell you that I know you’re in love with me?” John said softly. He took a step closer; Sherlock could tell even with his eyes closed, he was so attuned to John’s presence. “Don’t tell you that I feel the same way? That I’ve felt the same way for a very long time? Because I did, Sherlock, I just didn’t understand it.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and John was in his face, inches away. If he ducked down a little…

He stepped back, his back pressed up against the fridge. “John,” he said, very quietly.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was equally soft. He stepped forward again, and there was nowhere for Sherlock to go. “Say the word,” John murmured. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll back off. Nothing will change, I won’t leave. Tell me I’m wrong, Sherlock, or-“

Kissing John was simultaneously nothing and everything like Sherlock expected. There was a moment of confusion when Sherlock crashed his lips to John’s midsentence, but it passed almost instantly. John kissed with the same passion that he fought with. His fingers threaded roughly through Sherlock’s hair, dragging him down to get a better angle, and both of Sherlock’s hands found homes on John’s cheeks, cradling his face. He was on fire, something in the back of his mind whispered, he was burning up but it was okay because if this was what it felt like he would gladly go down in flames.

John pulled away first, gasping, and Sherlock would have followed if his own lungs hadn’t reminded him that breathing really was necessary for survival. He looked at John, who was staring at him, part awestruck and part relieved, and a laugh bubbled up inside him, bursting from his chest in fits of giggles.

John’s expression morphed to include a hint of confusion. “Sherlock?”

He put his hand to his mouth, pressing his knuckles against his lips, still spitting out giggles until he was able to get them more or less under control. “Valentine’s Day,” he managed. “I _hate_ Valentine’s Day.”

John’s smile was more than a little relieved, and he laughed too. “Sorry,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, you can tell me you need some time to think about it, so our anniversary isn’t on February fourteenth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock beamed at him. “Our anniversary isn’t the fourteenth.”

“It isn’t?”

“Our anniversary is in January. January twenty-ninth, if I’m not much mistaken.”

John frowned for a minute, clearly trying to place the date, and then a look a realization dawned on his face. “No, Sherlock,” he said, but he was smiling, “you can’t just say that’s our anniversary.”

“Why not? It’s the day we met.”

“Yes, but,” John shook his head, still smiling. “We weren’t together then, Sherlock.”

“Close enough.” At John’s incredulous look, he simply raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” John gave in. “Fine. Our anniversary is January twenty-ninth, you complete madman.”

“Mmm. Kiss me again?”

“Yeah, alright.”

It was softer, this time, less like burning and more like drowning. Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s shoulders, down his arms, and then back up again, feeling the man in front of him, as if physical contact was the only way he could confirm that this was real. When they pulled apart again, Sherlock asked, “Where did you get it?”

“What?”

“All of it,” Sherlock gestured vaguely at the items on the table and the fridge.

“Oh,” John shrugged. “The flowers I bought, but everything else I borrowed from Molly. She said she needs it back, by the way. She nicked it from the classrooms. Oh, but you can keep the heart. Not here, obviously, but she said you can do whatever you like with it at Bart’s.”

“That’s very thoughtful of her,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, well, I think her exact words were ‘it’s a present to celebrate us finally seeing what everyone else could see for years.’”

“We’ll have to thank her properly.”

“Yes, we will,” John said. “Tomorrow. It’s pretty late. Did you eat?”

“No. And I put Rosie down, so she’ll probably wake up later wanting food.”

John groaned, “Just what I need, a crying baby waking me up in the middle of the night.” But there was no annoyance in his voice, just affection.

Sherlock deliberated, and then said, “In the interest of being completely honest with you, I have to admit something.”

John frowned, glancing towards the baby monitor, and Sherlock said quickly, “It’s nothing bad. Well. I don’t think.”

“Then what?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “When we were out today, Rosie may have…possibly said her first word.” At the look on John’s face, he rushed out, “It was a bit unclear, it could have just been babbling, but it sounded a bit like she was trying to talk.”

“So, let me get this straight,” John said, looking torn between amusement and upset, “I’ve been trying to get her to talk for months, and she just said something to you without any prompting?”

“Well, she is still fairly young. Real speech is still a little ways off, development-wise, so she’s perfectly average.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

John looked at him expectantly, “Well? What did she say?”

“Oh!” Sherlock said. “Right.” He winced, peeking at John from the corner of his eyes. “She said ‘da.’”

John blinked. “Like, she was trying to say ‘dad’?”

“Or da-da, or some other variation, yes.”

“And,” John hesitated, “she said this to you? As in, she was addressing you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock waited for John to get upset. He waited for John to be angry that not only had Rosie spoken to Sherlock first, but that she had identified him as her father. He waited for John to take back the kisses, the confession.

Instead, John laughed. He laughed hard enough that he needed to grasp the back of a kitchen chair for support. When he calmed down, Sherlock still blinking at him in shock, he said, “Well, Rosie’s a smart girl. It looks like she had a better idea of what was going on than we did.” After a moment, he added, “Besides, I’ve always been more of a ‘papa’ anyway.”

“So, you’re not upset?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

“Why would I be upset?” John returned.

Sherlock shuffled his feet, “I mean, it’s a bit premature to call me her father. We don’t even know if…this…is going to work out.”

“First of all,” John said, “this? Is going to work out. We’ve had years to figure it out, Sherlock, and I think we’ve finally got it right. Second? You were Rosie’s godfather in the first place. Even without us being a couple, you were going to help raise her. You were practically her parent anyway. This just…makes it a bit more official.”

“So you wouldn’t be angry if I thought of her as my daughter?”

“I’d even encourage it,” John said. “Although I do think we should wait a bit on the adoption papers. Just in case.” He was clearly joking, but there was an underlying truth to his words.

“Agreed,” Sherlock said.

There was another moment, leaning towards each other for another kiss, but then it was broken by a wail from the baby monitor. “I’ll get her,” John sighed, smiling wearily at Sherlock. “Can you get her dinner ready?”

“Of course,” Sherlock responded.

As he bounded up the stairs, John called down, “And I think we’ll have to order takeaway for us. I didn’t actually go get groceries.”

Sherlock chuckled to himself, and by the time John returned with Rosie, he had her dinner set up and their standard order placed for delivery. After he settled her into her highchair, John kissed Sherlock lightly over Rosie’s head, and she giggled and clapped, stretching up to them. “Don’t want you to feel left out,” John murmured, and dropped a kiss on top of her head. Sherlock did the same, and she cooed, before reaching for her dinner.

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock said. “Let’s get some food in you.” As he and John took turns spoon-feeding their daughter, their free hands found each other across the table and their fingers laced together. Sherlock looked up and caught John’s eye, and a feeling of completion washed over him. This was it. He was finally, truly home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if any of the science here is faulty.  
> In case anyone was wondering, the flowers mean the following:  
> blue violets - love and faithfulness  
> pink camellias - longing for you  
> entwined red and white roses - unity (also sometimes marriage)  
> Also, the elemental symbols for iodine, livermorium, and uranium are I Lv U, and serotonin is one of the main chemicals involved in love.  
> And finally, if someone could double check my math that'd be great, but going off the timeline, we know Mary gets pregnant in about early August (based on the wikia timeline), so she's about five months pregnant at Christmas. That would put Rosie's birthday in early April, making her nine months old at the end of season 4 and about 10 months by this point in this series. I'm not perfect with child development, so if she's doing anything wildly out of character for a ten month old, let me know.


End file.
